The Claus Conspiracy
by Roz and Guild
Summary: It's a wintry Christmas, and the Holmes brothers are taken to the mall by their mother, who decides on photos with Santa to amuse Sherlock. Things don't go according to plan...


I wrote this quite a while ago to the prompt 'first injury'.

By Guild :)

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"Stop that Sherlock!"

Mycroft ran towards his four year old brother who was crouched on the footpath, intently pressing at the large, bumpy scab on his knee. Reaching down, he grabbed Sherlock's hand and prised his fingers away.

"Mum told you not to do that. You'll get it infected."

Sherlock pulled his hand roughly away, glaring at Mycroft. He looked back down at his leg. "But I wanted to see what it's like underneath!"

Mycroft took Sherlock's arm and lead him back towards their mother, who was in a nearby newsagent purchasing some Christmas cards. 3 days ago, Sherlock had taken a magnificent fall from his bicycle after trying to ride backwards on bumpy pavement slick with snow, with only one hand. His entire left knee had been scraped away, and the four year old was absolutely fascinated with the large, bloody wound on his leg- the first such injury he had sustained in his short life.

"Are we going into the mall soon?" Mycroft asked, peering up at the sky which was a threateningly grey colour. Snow looked eminent, and he had forgotten his umbrella at home. Mycroft hated getting caught in the snow. He was warmly dressed in a large overcoat and scarf. Sherlock, unusually, did not seem to feel the cold at all and had insisted on wearing shorts, despite the chilly weather. Mycroft personally suspected it was only so that his brother could keep looking down at his injured knee.

"Yes, soon darling." His mother was torn between two different card designs. "What do you think is better? The gold or the silver glitter?"

"Gold. It's- Sherlock!" Mycroft frowned at his brother, who had cunningly turned around and was bending over, sneakily prodding at one particularly bruised section of knee.

"Oh dear, is he playing with that again?" Mrs Holmes looked down disapprovingly at Sherlock. "If you don't stop that, I'll have to bandage it up again."

"You can't. You didn't bring any bandages," Sherlock said cheekily, without looking up. "And since we caught the bus, you can't go home to get any."

"I did bring the Winnie-the-pooh bandaids though."

Sherlock jumped up, horrified. His hands shot behind his back. "Not those!"

Mycroft laughed.

"Well, don't let me see you touching that scab again. It's only just begun to heal." Mrs Holmes moved towards the counter with her cards while Mycroft and Sherlock waited by the door, Sherlock obediently keeping his hands well away from his knee. As soon as she returned, the group walked a little way down the street to the large shopping mall.

"I think we'll go to the book shop first." Their mother peered at a large, illuminated directory. Mycroft, eager to look at books, helped her. After a few minutes of confusion, they had located the shop, and then moved towards the escalator. Half-way up, Mrs Holmes let out a loud exclamation.

"Sherlock! You naughty boy!"

Looking down, Mycroft saw a tell-tale dribble of blood running down Sherlock's left leg.

"That's it." Grabbing her son's arm, Mrs Holmes dragged Sherlock up the rest of the escalator and stood him firmly in a corner. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a handful of the dreaded white bandaids covered in Whinnie-the-pooh kiddy designs.

"No Mum!" Sherlock tried to bat her hands away. "I'll be good, I promise!"

"No. I told you not to touch that scab and you kept picking at it." Mrs Holmes deftly stuck two of the bandaids across his scab and unwrapped another.

"But I only wanted to see what the blood was like after 3 days!" Sherlock's face crumpled, and Mycroft immediately recognised the signs of an approaching sulk. Mrs Holmes finally finished, crumpling up the empty wrappings and looking at Sherlock's Whinnie-the-pooh knee with satisfaction. "There. No more touching. Now let's continue with shopping." She took his arm and tried to lead him away, but he dug his heels into the ground and refused to move.

"Come on Sherlock. Stop sulking!"

"No." Sherlock turned his head and tried to run away, but Mycroft quickly caught him. Sherlock punched him hard on the nose. "Let me go Mycroft!"

"Behave yourself!" Mrs Holmes grabbed him firmly, wrestling away his arms and forcing him to walk forward. Sherlock screamed at her and wriggled, fingers reaching to rip the bandaids off. His mother dealt him a swift slap to the backside and set him firmly on his feet. At once, tears began streaming down his face and he began to wail loudly.

"Oh great. Now he's crying." Mycroft looked at him unsympathetically, knowing that Sherlock could turn on tears at a moment's notice, usually as an effective method to get his own way. Mrs Holmes, however, looked flustered. She looked around for a way to distract Sherlock, and soon fixed her eyes on a huge, red sleigh set up underneath the huge mall Christmas tree. A long line of little children were waiting in front of it.

"Come on Sherlock! Why don't you have a photo with Santa?"

Sherlock stopped crying and looked with interest at the fat, jolly man sitting in the sleigh, a chubby toddler perched on his knee. Pleased that her son was somewhat pacified, Mrs Holmes took him over to the end of the line. "You can have a photo before we begin our shopping." Mycroft stood awkwardly behind, feeling rather uncomfortable amongst all the toddlers and sincerely hoping none of his school friends would come past. He prayed that his mother wouldn't make him go in the sleigh with Sherlock.

As they moved up the line slowly, Sherlock seemed quite happy. He didn't even look down at his band aids again. However, as soon as the mother in front of them, with her 3 daughters, entered the gate and began arranging for the photo, Sherlock got his first good, hard look at Santa. What he saw didn't impress him.

"That's not Santa!" he announced loudly.

"Shh!" Mrs Holmes looked embarrassed, especially since a little girl behind them in pink fairy dress gasped audibly. "Of course it's Santa, Sherlock."

"No it's not. That shape is not natural. He's got a pillow stuffed inside him. Plus, his glasses aren't real. He took them off a moment ago and still recognised that woman way over there. Plus," Sherlock scoffed, "his beard is fake."

Mrs Holmes shot a desperate look at Mycroft. He swallowed his annoyance and forced himself to speak up. "Don't be silly Sherlock. Of course that's the real Santa."

Sherlock looked at him as if he was stupid. "I can see the elastic on his beard."

"He accidentally shaved it off, so he uses a false one so people will recognise him." Mrs Holmes glanced nervously at the people behind her. The pink fairy, who had been listening to every word, was looking upset.

"Don't be stupid Mum. His boots are too shiny. If he came from the North Pole, they would be wet with snow. And his suit is too clean. It would take him days to travel from up North, he would get dirty, as everyone does when they go travelling. And anyway, his shoes have brand names on the bottom. The real Santa has elves make his shoes. Plus, some of his hair's sticking out of his wig. It's orange."

Pink fairy began to cry. Two toddlers behind her joined in.

The three girls in front finished. Mrs Holmes urged Sherlock through the gate. She tried to make Mycroft go with him but he refused. They both watched tentatively as Sherlock ran over to the sleigh and climbed in.

"Ho ho ho! Good day young fella! I'm Santa! And what's your name?"

"I'm Sherlock. But you're not Santa." Sherlock sat down on the man's lap, looking curiously at him.

"Of course I'm Santa! Who else would I be?"

"Do you get paid much to pretend to be Santa? Are you even allowed to pretend to be him? Isn't that called 'identity theft'?"

"Er, what do you want for Christmas?" Santa asked quickly, urgently shooting a look to the photographer who rushed to prepare his camera.

"Well, I'd like a microscope. A good one, with a built-in lamp. Books would also be good, particularly some Natural History. But it's no good telling you, is it? You're not Santa so you can't even get them for me."

"Photo time!"

Santa gave a broad, nervous grin at the camera. Just as it flashed, Sherlock grabbed the man's beard and lifted it up. "See! I knew it was fake!"

"Next child please!" Santa lifted him off and quickly put him on the ground, at the same time trying to rearrange his beard.

"Pillow! I knew it was a pillow!" Sherlock punched him hard in the stomach.

"Oof!"

"Hey! You're not really that wrinkly, which means you're not old, so you can't be Santa!"

"Sherlock!" Mrs Holmes ran in to grab him.

"I was right, wasn't I Mycroft?" Sherlock looked up happily at his older brother as they quickly left the scene, leaving behind the loud sounds of crying children.

"Yes, you were right. Very good deduction."

"Ha! That fake Santa couldn't get the better of me." Sherlock began skipping along, having completely forgotten about his knee. "Just think. Every year he deludes hundreds of innocent children. He even fooled Mycroft. You'd better stick around me Mycroft, otherwise you'll be forever swindled. They're not always so easy to spot, you know..."

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Thanks for reading!


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